


Unsinkable

by Hawkstar1999



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Titanic Fusion, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, POV Alternating, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, RMS Titanic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 14:37:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10220435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hawkstar1999/pseuds/Hawkstar1999
Summary: Yuuri's a professional con at Blackjack. Viktor's old money from Russia, and when Yuuri wins a first-class ticket on the Titanic, Viktor picks him out from the crowd. While Yuuri tries to stay professional and do his job, Viktor keeps pulling him away. (For walks to see the sunset of all things!) It's not that Yuuri hates it, its just that he needs to cheat people, not go on walks. But its hard to stop, especially when Viktor keeps over dramatizing how difficult it will be for him to exist in first class.For a professional con artist, he's quite gullible.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I think the summary has more information in it than most of the first chapter.

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way —" 

The light was dim, the smoky atmosphere of the back rooms in pubs, where he and Phichit bartered away all they owned for a chance at something better. It was how they got to Italy, and then to Britain, though the further they were from home, the worse their fortunes seemed to get. It was dark in the pub, but it didn't hide the greasy smile of the man across from them, and it only seemed to accentuate the yellow tint to his teeth. "You want to go to America?" The man scoffed at him, "You'll never make it Jap. I'd bet me tickets on it." Phichit was behind the man, far enough away to be inconspicuous, but close enough to see his cards, especially with the man as loose and drunk as he was. A subtle shake of Phichit's head, and Yuuri knew- his cards were good. But were they as good as his own?

"Why don't you bet your tickets on it then?"

"What! And give up me chance on the new world? You wouldn't even pass 'elth inspection with 'em Oriental eyes." The man shook his head, tipping his head back to drain his beer. "Not with 'em eyes. I'd bet me tickets on it." He was drunk, voice slurred and eyes unfocused. Yuuri could beat him easily; Blackjack was one of his best card games. He'd already won half of what the man owned, and those tickets were just what he needed. They might not get him first class, but third class was a good enough place to rob people of their money. He always kept an ace up his sleeve- quite literally.

"Still calling America the new world?"

"They say the streets are paved with gold. And the air don't have the London grey in it either."

"Just the New York grey?"

"Nay! I 'ear the air is clear. Breathe it withou' coughin'." 

"Tell you what, for the tickets. I'll give you everything. There's enough money here to live in an area with clear air for ages. And who knows what's really over there? Probably better to send two yellow men over to make sure it's safe for a respectable man like you." He hated referring to himself in a derogatory manner, he hated treating the other man like his superior, but it worked wonders on drunk men who had expected more from their lives. And the way the man talked, his raggedy old suit, marked with coal and ripped up. He could almost see the man's history like a movie- this man was the owner of a failed business, dropping from a modest position in society to the scum of the earth. An adopted and exaggerated way of talking, a belief that America would save him, and an obnoxious use of racial slurs- it all added up. 

"Everythin? I'll bet you them tickets then."

"Perfect," Yuuri said icily. "I'm so excited to play with you... again." The cards in his sleeve itched to be revealed, a ten and an ace just begging to make their appearance. He tried to use the cards sparingly, but... who could blame a man for trying to advance his place in society? "Good luck," he said, tilting his glass towards the other man as shuffled through his cards.

"I wish I could tell you the same Jap, but men like you don' get lucky. Gettin' inta America 'll be the best thing to ever happen to you."

"You have no idea," Yuuri drawled, resting his elbows on the tabled. "I'm going to get rich." The man grinned at him, the same leering grin as when he won the night before.

"You think you're gonna get rich? Today is my day."

"Oh?" The man across from him pushed his cards forward, grinning. 

"Two face cards, Jap. Dealer's got 17. Cough up." Yuuri pretends to frown, to be torn up, looking down at his own cards. A face card and a 9, a good draw, but- he'd have to pull out his ace. He was good at slight of hand, incredibly so, but if Phichit could just give him a distraction-. A clatter sounded from the bar, where two stools had fallen, shattered glass forming a loose circle around them. He would need to thank Phichit properly when they got out of there. While the others were distracted, he slipped the 9 down his sleeve, replacing it with his own lucky ace. It had never failed him before, especially not with drunk men. 

"I'm afraid, sir, that I can do no such thing," Yuuri said, smirking just a bit too arrogantly.

"Shocked you haven't run yet Jap. I'm sure 'alf the men in this bar would help me punch ya. Lookin' like a fairy like that." Yuuri just smiled, and put his own cards down on the table.

"Blackjack."

"Cheater!"

"I guess a Jap just got lucky," Yuuri said, looking at the man deferentially. "Do you want to play again?" 

"You've beat me in every game tonight. Don't think I'm that dumb. You're a cheater, just like all the other Chinese. But I ain't got no proof nor no lawyer, so I'll let you go. But I'm keepin' me tickets." 

"I've never cheated in my life sir. And I'd quite like what I've won." The man looked at him, studying him, but it was to no avail. Yuuri was a master of disguise, and this man was grossly drunk. He had no reason to be afraid, he'd probably not even remember in the morning. "I'll call the bartender on you if you don't give me what I won. Would you lose your integrity for tickets?" He judged the man, his hastened breath, the way he blinked too quickly- he'd said the right thing. This man was practically out of a handbook of people you meet in a bar. 

"Take them. I don't want 'em no more." 

"It'd be my pleasure." He dipped his head to the man, a cordial smile included. He couldn't leave his victims curious, or they would think. They would remember his little mistakes- he always touched his sleeve to secure the cards, he always looked just behind their face to focus on Phichit. He was no professional, and he had tells. But by sticking to sleazy places, places where the smoke and the alcohol covered his lies, he could cheat. And as quickly as he walked in, he walked out, Phichit slinking out of the shadows to walk by his side. It was comforting to have the man near him, protecting him from behind like he had so many times before. It wasn't that he was a criminal, but... he was. The London underworld knew his name, whispers from others talking about him. You made yourself a name no matter what you did, and that was why he wanted out. It wouldn't be long before his name was said to the wrong man, and there were only so many Japanese men in London. 

"I'm traveling econd class," Phichit said, grinning. "You got yourself a second class and a first class ticket Yuuri. Do you know what that means?" 

"It means I have to get an expensive suit Phichit. And at least three ties so it doesn't look like I only have one suit." 

"I was thinking something more along the lines of the fact that you're going to be playing cards with the richest men in America every night. But how did that man have a first class ticket?" 

"He's a failed businessman who hoped to start a new life in America. Samuel Georges according to this ticket. 32 years old. He's been slumming it for at least three years, but he spent the last of his savings on those tickets to get connections."

"Alright Holmes," Phichit joked, bumping his shoulder against Yuuri's.

"You read too much Phichit. If you spent your time practicing Blackjack with me, you could be a con by now," Yuuri complained, though he felt no hard feelings towards his friend. Some people weren't made for Blackjack, and Phichit was definitely one of those people. He was too honest and kind, even after years in London. The people of the city were pessimistic at best- though the city was designed for pessimistic people. Grey and crime-laden, there was no better place to foster mistrust and hatred. 

"You'll need my literary prowess to fit in with the rich people. All they ever do is read and drink tea, I heard." 

"Genmaicha?"

"Earl grey."

"Not surprising. I wish they would surprise me sometimes."

"Like you've had many opportunities to be surprised by the rich and famous."

"In two days, I'll have more opportunities than you could dream about." 

"But I'll be in second class, won't I?"

"Do you think I would leave you behind Phichit? It's hard to find somebody to trust with your life." 

 

_<>_<>_<>_<>_>

 

He had lived his whole life in luxury. Anything he wanted was just a wave of a pinky away from him, except the only thing he really desired. Freedom. He wanted to run and scream like the boys in the streets below him, even if all he had to live off of were the pennies strangers put in his outstretched hat. He hadn't run in years, since he was 8. His mother said it wasn't good to run, it wasn't respectable. Gentlemen don't run in the streets; gentlemen don't go out without their blazers and their gloves and their watches. At least if he was a girl he would have less responsibility- sold off to some man at 18 and living the rest of my life praying he would love me. (To be honest, it didn't sound all that much better.) He had a fiance of his own, a beautiful woman who was in America, waiting for him across an ocean. He was supposed to love her- Olivia, his father had said- but he couldn't. He wanted to run and dance with somebody he loved, basking in the freedom of the moment. There had to be freedom out there somewhere. They said in America girls had short hair and short dresses, that people danced on streets pathed in gold, but he doubted the rich were included. He'd probably have to sit in some high room with too large windows, forced to look on and listen to the love rolling off the people below him. 

Would his father ever let him dance with them? He was 20, and he's still never let go. He'd never lived, according to Christophe. Christophe, who they called new money. Christophe, who danced in the streets with the people, because they were his people, even when he wore his suits. There was something less elegant to him, his confusion when given too many forks, his lack of knowledge of basic ballroom steps. Viktor had latched onto the man, the 25-year-old who shot to fame through his acting. He laughed easier than the others, shockingly nonchalant with his touches. He'd hugged Viktor within a week of knowing him, making quite a scene in the formal dining hall. And he had a fiance from the same world as him, who worked as a seamstress and had refused to go on the Titanic with him (meaning that Christophe had stayed behind too, much to Viktor's upset) But the man had grinned when Viktor complained, hugging him yet again. "When you truly love someone Viktor, you would rather die than spend a day apart from them. When you meet your Juliet, you'd die for them, but even Heaven would be sad without them besides you in it. I couldn't imagine even a day without my Alexandra." 

Now he was alone, getting dressed for the day. He had lunch with his mother and her socialite friends at noon, and a company meeting to attend with his father. They were expanding to America, and he was supposed to be taking over his father's job soon. His father was growing old, coming to the age where he could retire, especially with Viktor being of age to run the company. He was more than capable after years of training, and it was a better option than what other people had. He was lucky to have a job, and money, and a day where his only jobs were to eat and socialize. But it was painfully boring, the same parties and the same people, everyone watching for you to make even the smallest mistake. London had a dangerous criminal side, people who would kill him just to sell his coat for pennies on the pound. People would sell the bedsheets of dead men if it would pay for their dinner. He was lucky, but he didn't feel that way. It wasn't lucky to not have roots, to not know where your next meal was, but it was hardly lucky to not have the freedom to pick your own bride, your own life. 

And every day, he had to remind himself that it was indeed a wife he was getting, no matter how much he desired something else. But no man, no matter how rich or poor, was safe from the pain of being a sinner. He lived everyday knowing, in the back of his mind, that he was going to hell. Looking at the ties on his desk, he pulled out a soft silk blue one. It was plain, and his father hated it. Said it was too poor for someone of their station. He didn't know how silk could ever look poor, the tie had probably cost some men's yearly salaries, and here it was unused on his desk, staying behind in Britain while he moved on to America. He ran one finger down the silk, his nail catching on the fine stitching. It would be a small rebellion to wear it, after what his father had said, and he knew what would follow. He picked it up delicately, studying the loose strands hanging from the back. No wonder his father had thought it was cheap, but... the plainness was its own form of beautiful. 

A banging on his door ended his reverie- Yuri. The boy was endlessly angry, despite how much his father worked to make him a gentleman. He remembered their first formal dinner, when an angry 7-year old who threw his cup on the floor. Their father had been... angry after, and it had been the only lesson Yuri needed to learn to control his temper when around others. The now 15-year-old was probably better at formal etiquette than Viktor. If Yuri were any older, it would probably be him getting the company. Viktor had a... habit of small rebellions.

"I'm coming Yura! You don't need to knock the door down!" He grabbed the blue tie, reaching up to tie it around his neck. Just to add another rebellion to the list. Because if the only choice he had was tie colour, why not take the chance? 

"You better hurry up old man!" 

"And you should use proper language when speaking to your seniors, Yuri," he drawled, walking to the door as he carefully tied the tie around his neck. "Has our car arrived?"

"Five minutes ago Viktor! You have such poor manners sometimes."

"It takes time to get ready when you actually care about your appearance Yura," Viktor said, a subtle jibe at Yuri, who tended to just grab whatever items were closest to him in his closet. One time, he had worn a bright yellow time in September, when a color like that was obviously only for spring time. And the white suit jacket he had worn with it. Their father had sent Yuri back to change, and after that day, he tended to show up in clothing that was at least a sensible color. It was perhaps Yura's last step on his process of becoming a gentleman, and something he always liked to tease him about. When did he even get a bright yellow tie? It was something that their mother or father would buy, and the rest of their family was back in Russia. It was Yura who had missed Nikolai the most, when they moved to London. Yura had been 6 at the time, he had been 11- 9 years without seeing or even hearing from the man. And now they were moving again, across an entire ocean without even attempting to tell him. 

The door opened, his blond brother sticking his head in through the gap. "Look at you, all colour coordinated. Come on, hurry up or you'll be late to lunch again. Mother always hates when we're late to lunch." 

"All her friends just try to tell us to marry their daughters."

"And we probably will Viktor. I know you have some weird fantasy about love." Viktor started to protest, and Yuri glared at him. "I want what Christophe has Yura! Why can't Mother let me love! It's not fairrrr." It was a poor imitation of Viktor's voice, coupled with a single raised eyebrow. "Think that was the same night you came home covered in your own blood, crying your eyes out. I know you hate to admit it, Viktor, but its dangerous for you to fall in love. You can't have some low-class fantasy with 8 children and labor jobs."

He shoved past Yura, walking out the door of his room. "I'm going to get married to Olivia, because I love her."

"Her name is Adele Viktor. Adele Astaire. She's a vaudeville actor, born in 1896. Working on her career and hoping a marriage into royalty will help her. How do you not even know her name? You agreed to marry her." 

"I thoght I agreed to marry Olivia already?"

"She's Russian. Our father wants connection, and up-and-coming famous people are the kind of connections he needs. If you want to be successful in a place like the United States, you have to have connections and money. The streets aren't paved in gold, they're paved with blood. The working class there, it might be even more oppressed than here. And the government keeps pushing them down while raising us up."

"Then why do they think its so great?"

"Because who has ever come back except the rich? The rich are always looking for more cheap labor." Viktor grimaced, curling his lip.

"We're disgusting, aren't we?"

"I would say so. Now hurry up and put on your shoes."

"I can't believe you're telling me what to do," Viktor complained, slowly lacing his shoes. "How much money will I need to bring for the cab?"

 

_<>_<>_<>_<>_>

 

Yuuri couldn't suppress his awe when he saw the ship before him. It was huge, the largest thing he had ever seen. Imposing smoke stacks were painted a bright red, the rest of the ship a standard black, but the black seemed so much... nicer. It was glossy and clean, clearly the sign of a ship's maiden voyage. He felt out of place in drab grey suit, which hung loosely off his shoulders. He was hardly rich enough to get a properly tailored suit, especially with only three days of warning. This suit had been on clearance, and it worked well enough for what he was doing. It would be better in second class, where nobody would be looking too closely. But it was nice all the same, even if the fabric was a bit too scratchy and the shoulders were a bit too wide. At least, he thought it would be alright until he saw the others in first class, until he saw the ship he was about to board. These people looked like they had never lifted a hand in their life, hands covered in fine silk gloves. His own hands were obviously calloused, his back covered with scars from labor jobs gone wrong. He would never make it past the stewards, with his messy hair and bad eyes. He had had to wave goodbye to Phichit a few moments ago, as the man broke away from him to walk to the second class entry point, wearing a neat suit with suspenders and a cap. It was a touch informal, but he seemed to blend in well enough. Apparently, once you reached first class, there was no well enough.

He should have prepared for this more. As he was walking to the group, he could feel eyes landing and resting on him, taking in him- his nationality and his clothing, the way he walked, everything superficial they could use to judge him. But their attention was drawn away when a sleek black car drove up, sparkling as if it were brand new. The people inside were hidden behind curtains, but whoever they were, they drew in attention like magnets. And as the steward opened the doors for them, he could see why. There's was a name everyone had heard of- Nikiforov. Oh, how much Yuuri would give to play a game of Blackjack against one of them. They could bet thousands of dollars without even blinking an eye. The second person to step from the car was a stern looking lady, dark crow feet at the edges of her eyes. Her husband was balding, boasting a round stomach and a thick frame. He looked every bit the rich person stereotype, up to and including the monocle that hung from his jacket pocket. He expected that to be the end of it, but the steward was reaching to the back door, pulling it open. And the man who stepped out of the car, wearing tight pants and an immaculate jacket, a gorgeous silk blue tie that emphasized the colour of his eyes, grey hair sweeping in front of one of his eyes- this man would make Yuuri drop down his guards. He would play Blackjack against him for fun, and he didn't even do that with Phichit. A fourth person stepped out of the car besides him, a younger boy with long blond hair and a similarly fitting suit. He shoved mystery angel out of the way, shouting something in a foreign language. And grey hair smiled at the boy, reaching up with his hand to brush his hair out of his face. He was laughing, and his smile was heart-shaped.

Rich. White. First-class. Nikiforov. 

You can't touch him Yuuri. 

Rich. White. First-class. Nikiforov. 

He'd get you shot. Dead. Dead. Dead.

He forced himself to look away, a blush painting his cheeks pink. He never blushed. His eyes met those of a sailor, though, the man glaring at him before pushing through the crowd, leaving confused ladies behind twisting their parasols angrily. "Hey! Jap! Yeah, you! No other rat like you would be dumb enough to come out here! What are you doing in first class? Do you want ta get yaself shot? Because I'd be more than willing to help ye with your trip to the Devil." Fear coursed through his veins like liquid fire, but he forced a calm smile on his face.

"I'd appreciate if you treated me with more respect. I am Katsuki Yuuri." His name would mean nothing to this sailor, nothing to anyone on this boat, but if he acted as if it should- "I'll have to report you to Captain Smith at dinner. What did you say your name was?" He tried to control his accent, tried to speak like he was a 'proper' man, but it was subpar acting at best. 

"The Captain don't socialize with steerage passengers, or storage rats, which is what ya probably are. I'd bet it on me buttons, and their made from real gold."

"Back home in Japan, I have a house made of gold," Yuuri spat, trying to make himself taller than the sailor, but his short stature did nothing to help him. "You've probably worked for me, at some point. I am well known for my enterprises."

"Enter-whatsis?"

"Good evening," he hissed, shoving his way past the man and onto the gangway. His ticket was carefully tucked into his pocket, clearly marked with a name that wasn't his own.

"Hey! Katsuki! Get him off o' that gangway!" The man was shouting, making a scene, and he smiled apologetically at the people beside him.

"I am so sorry for the disturbance. Some people are just so backwards in their thinking; they can't see what's right before their eyes. I"m Katsuki Yuuri."

"Mr. Yuuri?" One of the ladies offered, clearly confused, the name rolling off her tongue awkwardly.

"Mr. Katsuki, I'm afraid. We put our surname first in Japan, and I still haven't become used to the proper way of things here." The lady smiled sympathetically at him, laying her hand on his arm like he was a child.

"Oh, I understand Mr. Katsooki. It can be hard to get used to civilized culture after living in such a wild place. I hope no one has been incredibly rude to you; it's rare to see a person like you around people like us. Considering your horrible and biased education and all." It was all he could do to not grimace at her words, instead forcing yet another fake smile on his face. It was more smiling than he normally did in a year, usually resorting to a blank expression, a poker face per say. It was good for his game, and even better for socializing. People could never read him if he was in complete control of all the emotion on his face. Now though, he wasn't wiping emotion away, but instead covering it. It was draining. No wonder these people were called professional socialites, he felt more drained within 5 minutes than he had ever felt in years before. (He'd also met the most beautiful man he had ever seen, but... there was nothing he could do about that, especially because said man was a Nikiforov, the epitome of perfection. It was he, a useless Jap, that would be going straight to hell for his gambling.) 

Definitely not for anything else. 

A hand reached out and grabbed him, pulling him back from the group of women he had been talking to. "If you think you're in first class, cough up the tickets!" It was a man, face stained grey with coal, glaring at him through a scruffy brown beard. He looked like a dock worker, muscular and beaten down; tired. 

"I don't know why I would I give them to you and not to the man I'm supposed to give them to," Yuuri said, innocently, testing if the man was truly angry, or just looking for an easy target. 

"Because I could break that fancy lil' first class nose of yours, Jap. Look as ugly as the rest of the yellow skins." 

"Let go of him." It's a smooth voice, turned icy at the edges. Yuuri could swear the man who spoke had an accent, but he's too scared of the man before him to turn around and identify the person behind him. "You have no right to take his tickets, and I strongly suggest that you leave before you offend me or my guest." The man's face was turning white before him, looking over Yuuri's head at what must be a monster of a man. Then, he was spitting at Yuuri's shoes and stalking away, hunching his shoulders to protect what remained of his pride. "Are you alright?" the man offers, placing his hand on his arm comfortingly, a hint of pressure asking Yuuri to turn. "Did he hurt you?" Yuuri shivered, it was scary how easily the man's voice had gone from threatening to caring, as if he had just flipped a switch in his brain from mean to nice. 

"I'm alright," Yuuri offered, stepping away so as to create a respectful distance. "I'm Katsuki Yuuri. Uh, Yuuri Katsuki." 

"I wish I could say I'd heard of you before Mr. Katsuki," the man said. It was rude of Yuuri to keep his back to him, but he was afraid of what the man could look like to scare away a dock worker that easily. "Perhaps if you turned around, I could recognize you from a dinner."

"Doubtful. I only came to Britain a few days ago. I haven't been invited to any formal dinners, not with anyone outside of my family." But he turned anyway, bracing himself for someone gruesome looking, with missing eyeballs or something. Instead, it was... "Nikiforov?" Yuuri spluttered, mouth hanging open. 

"I prefer Viktor, but yes. I'm glad to hear that my family is well known of, even in somewhere as far away as Japan. I had tea from Japan once, years ago. Genmaicha. With the rice? It was lovely." Yuuri just stared at the man, whose eyes were even more stunning up close. "I must admit though, I only stopped that man because I wanted to ask you something," he paused, waiting for Yuuri, but the man offered no reply. "Sit with my family at dinner Yuuri! We have an open seat at our table, and the people in first class around here, they aren't the most open. I'm sure you would make a great conversation partner, considering the fact that you've lived in Japan. What a foreign area!" 

"I couldn't! I don't have the clothing for a formal dinner!"

"Evidently," Viktor said, gesturing towards his suit. "You might as well be wearing a potato sack with a suit of that quality and fit. Though you must wear different clothes in Japan, which would explain it. I must admit I don't know much about Japanese culture, it's not a commonly discussed topic because of the stigma against the Oriental countries. But I understand! I'm from Russia!" 

"Do you always talk so much?" He slapped his hand over his mouth, wincing when he realized that that was another uncouth habit that would never be common in the first class. He would start bowing to Viktor if it would make the man forgive him- something he hadn't done since he left Japan. It wasn't a common custom in Europe, in fact, no one bowed. Except to kings, and even then they bowed at the waist, an entirely different method of bowing. And now he had offended the oldest son of one of the richest men in the world, the son who had clearly just been trying to help, as he stuck out among the first-class passengers. 

"I talk so much when nobody's around to judge me, but I guess I'll have to add you to the list of judgemental people. Don't worry about being judgemental though, I think the only person not on the list is Yuri."

"But that's me? Yuuri."

"No no no! Yuri. Less 'u' sound. He's my brother, but I normally just call him Yura. I can call him that all the time now that I have an excuse! He hates it. My брат. When he was younger, he threw a glass at Henry Ford. The man laughed, probably because he's an American. Have you met any Americans yet? They're so free-willed and open." 

"You talk very quickly," Yuuri said, trying to sort through what Viktor had said. "And I don't mean it negatively, just, English is my 4th language!" 

"Fourth?"

"Well, I didn't come straight to England from Japan. I had to save up, uh.... create business ventures.... before I moved on."

"I've never had to save up in my life, but it must be because of the terrible exchange rate between yen and pounds. I would rather save up money of real value than sell what I have for less than its worth." 

"Uh.. yes?" He couldn't tell if Viktor was making up these stories for him, or if he actually thought that Yuuri was some rich and unparalleled businessman from Japan. 

"It'll make great a cover story at dinner, but I want to know the real Katsuki Yuuri. Who did you steal the tickets from?" Viktor was reaching for his pocket, and Yuuri jerked away, glaring.

"It's called a kimono," he said, mimicking the icy tone Viktor had had when scaring away the dock worker. "And perhaps if you actually knew anything about Japan you would know that I am a business man. How dare you accuse me of being a thief! My country puts a huge emphasis on honour and respect, it is neither honourable nor respectful to steal." 

"It's neither honourable nor respectful to lie Katsuki Yuuri." 

"I don't even know you!"

"But do you want to know me? The tickets are yours, earned by lawful means, if you come to dinner with me."

"Are you bribing me?"

"Am I right?"

"I'll go to dinner with you, but not because I stole the tickets. Because it would be nice to have company I know."

"And I'll loan you a pair of gloves to cover those calluses. It's not often you see calluses on the hands of rich men," Viktor said, "Anyone would notice the moment you shook their hand. Your hands are rough as sandpaper." 

"As if you've ever touched sandpaper," Yuuri said, pulling away from Viktor. "I'll be boarding now. You should find your own family."

"Tell me your room number. So I can find you before dinner."

"Just meet me at the staircase."

"A secret rendezvous! How exciting!" Viktor leaned closer to him, far too close for acquaintances. "You must remember Yuuri. If you forgot, I don't know if my heart could take it." Yuuri had to fight to restrain his blush, to stop himself from revealing to the world his deepest secret. He hid the fact that he liked... men more than he had his illegal past times. 

"I might just. What happens when you shatter someone's heart? I always wanted to know."

"You're so cold. Goodbye, Mr. Katsuki." Viktor was gone as fast as he had appeared, melting back into the crowd of people like he had never existed. He saw a flash of silver hair, a cheery wave, and then it was gone again. As he wandered up the gangway, he couldn't focus on the small talk of the people around him. A man and and his wife who had treated Yuuri with scorn ever since he said he was from Japan. He should have expected everyone to treat him like this, but it still hurt. People in his normal class didn't bother to comment on his race, not like the people here. Sure, there were less racial slurs, but the ice in their voices was worse. 

"Excuse me, sir. You're ticket," a man said, holding his arm in front of Yuuri. He had been walking behind the couple listlessly he realized, unfocussed on where he was going, and now he was at the top without his tickets prepared.

"My apologies," he said, reaching into the pocket where he had put his tickets, fingers clasping around the thick paper. "Here it is." As he held it out to the steward, he had to fight to steady his breathing. The name on the ticket was clearly not his, he looked nothing like a Samuel Georges.

"What is your name sir?"

"Yuuri Katsuki."

"Not Samuel Georges?"

"Mr. Georges was ill, and asked for me to go to America for him. He had very pertinent business, and he trusted me with it. My apologies for any confusion.

"Do you have a note?"

"From Mr. Georges? No. Do you not trust my word? Please, we're holding up the line. If you have any questions, I'd be pleased to answer them later." 

"Do you have anyway to contact him?"

"Telegraph, but as I mentioned, he is sick. I don't think he would appreciate the disturbance, especially since White Star lines were said to be so professional. I would not want to have to report you for disrespect to him, but I wouldn't be afriad to either."

"Are you threatening me?"

"Are you going to tell me the directions to my room?"

"Sorry sir. Just go to the left and climb the staircase. There will be others to guide you from there."

"Thank you." He walked away briskly, leaving behind a bewildered line of people and a terrified steward. It had been rude of the man to question him- people didn't barter away first class Titanic tickets, and his story had been believable. If he had been white, if he had had a British accent and a properly fitting suit. The world wasn't fair though, not to people like him. He walked past the grand ship without looking around, keeping his face straight forward. It was elaborate, far too over the top. The price had been exuberant, he had heard, but even this- it was too much. Nobody needed this, it went beyond the standards of luxury. There was gold just decorating things, for no reason other than to sparkle and look pretty. Enough gold to feed a family for a year. Enough gold to save a person's life.

There was no reason for it all.

And when he reached his room, it was just as huge. He was one man, yet there was a sitting room, a bedroom, a bathroom with a tub with running water. He had never used running water.  And if he wanted, he could call a butler at any time, to make him tea and biscuits, or guide him to an area of the ship. His room was far from the grandest, but the furniture cost more than his own life, if he were to sell himself as a slave. It filled him with a burning hatred, this luxury. These people, who lived their whole lives not realizing how lucky they were. 

It seemed as if there could be no downfall to such a life. 

 

_<>_<>_<>_<>_>

 

"What were you doing talking to that Japanese man Viktor? Do you have no respect for our family's position in society? I thought I told you not to associate with people like that! People will tell rumours if you talk to dirty men like that. Your mother and I worked to raise you properly, I can't believe you would disrespect us like that."

"The man would have hurt him! Or stolen his ticket! It's not like I could have let him!"

"Everyone else was going to let him! I'd rather a working-class white man than a lazy Jap like that! Next you'll tell me you invited him to dinner!"

"I.. uh... might have invited him to dinner?"

"Viktor!" His father was glaring at him, clearly furious. "Are you insane? We can't have a Japanese man sitting at our table with us! We have a reputation!"

"He didn't have anyone else to sit with! Do you think any of these people would let him sit with them? Sure, we have a reputation to uphold, but don't you have any morality!" 

"Morality is for the people who fail. You'll find that any man who succeeds abandoned his morals to get their. You give up everything- body, mind, and soul- to your success. I hope someday you can recognize that Viktor. If you don't, I won't be ashamed to disown you as my son."

"You wouldn't! You love me!" His father leered at him, swiping the porcelain vase off the table.

"Love? Viktor, I've never loved anyone."

"Then give love a chance!" His father laughed, shaking his head at Viktor.

"Love isn't real. The only real thing is money. You should grow up, leave behind whatever illusion you're living in. You're a disgrace to the Nikiforov name." Viktor choked, looking up at the man who called himself his father. He hadn't meant anything wrong by inviting Yuuri! Why was being Japanese such a crime anyway? It wasn't like every single person who wasn't white was instantly evil. "When we get to America, I expect you to marry Adele without complaint, and then work at my business. If you get out of hand, I won't be afraid to write you off my will and send out Yuri to take your place. Yuri would listen to me. He doesn't have your crazy ideas. I'll see you at dinner. Without the Japanese man. Find your own way to tell him he won't be eating with us." 

_<>_<>_<>_<>_>

Viktor couldn't tell the man that he wouldn't be sitting with them for dinner. Not when he saw him patiently waiting by the clock, 10 minutes early for their meeting and dressed in one of the worst fitting suits Viktor had ever seen. It was a disgusting colour, all the wrong shades of grey and paired with a mustard yellow tie. It was a good thing he had brought a spare tie, the same blue silk that could probably save even that terrible suit. It was plain and simple, unassuming- the kind of thing Yuuri would probably wear. And when the man smiled at him with his huge doe eyes, and waved this happy wave like he had expected Viktor to leave him.

He wasn't a strong enough person to revoke his offer. 

"Yuuri!" he cooed, rushing down the final steps to greet the Japanese man. "Isn't she gorgeous?" He spread his arms out to indicate the ship, but when Yuuri leaned in to hug him, a questioning look on his face, Viktor realized what he had done. Near on ran at a the man while opening his arms, potentially referring to himself as a crossdresser seeking complements. 

"The Titanic is so luxurious. One lamp here could feed my family for weeks." Viktor laughed, wrapping his arms around the Japanese man- though he wasn't sure if it would be more awkward for him to step out of the hug and explain his true intentions. 

"Have you been to the Promenade Deck? It's so lovely to look out at the ocean, and I hear the sunsets will be glorious!" With nothing to obstruct the sun in any direction, it would be like a movie. Just not black and white. Burning flames of the sun lapping over the water to kiss the sides of the boat orange and yellow, the sky bleeding purple and red. It would be like a painting perhaps, but less oils and more reality. It was everything that could be imagined brought to life. 

"I haven't been yet. Not many people do things alone here, but I don't really... know anyone." Yuuri admitted, blushing and clasping his hands together.

"Of course you know someone Yuuri! You know me, so everyone will try to talk to you! Come on Yuuri, you should walk with me on the Promenade Deck before dinner."

"I'd rather not," Yuuri said, too cold, too bitter. "It'd be rather scandalous to see one of the Nikiforovs walking with a Japanese man, now wouldn't it? I know that your father doesn't like me." 

"How?"

"Well it's not the most soundproofed ship, and, well, I can inform you that your room is directly across from mine." Yuuri blushed, sticking his hands in his pockets and scuffing his shoe along the ground. It left rubber marks on the marble, permanently marring what was once perfect. "I shouldn't, Yuuri said, "Shouldn't sit with you. Your father doesn't want me to. I was selfish to come wait for you here." 

"If I was planning to listen to my father, I would've asked a steward to find you. Or, I don't know... not come? Yuuri, I don't think I've ever listened to my father. And I want you to sit with my family. I don't want you to be left alone in first class. Its the kind of thing I wouldn'tw ish on my enemies."

"If you knew the circles I run in, you would know that first class is child's play."

"I may not know what you do Yuuri, I may not believe that you got that ticket in an entirely legal way. But, invisible knives are far more dangerous than visible guns." Viktor ran his hand down Yuuri's back, a fleeting touch- "It's much more dangerous to be stabbed in the back than to be shot at from the front. These people may not have knives for weapons, but they have words, and they have money. Sit with me, and I'll guard your back. Don't, and I can't promise anything." Yuuri shivered, pulling away from Viktor.

"You make it sound like some kind of underground army or something. I can protect myself."

"I don't doubt it Yuuri, but... Is survival really living? You've spent enough of your life surviving, let me teach you how to live."

"Why me Viktor? Why not some pretty girl? Or some white man?"

"Because you surprise me Yuuri. And I want to surprise you." 

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me on Tumblr if you want: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/victyuurious-on-ice   
> Debatably, its probably a waste of time because I never post anything YOI related, but...


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